Fool Me Twice by Meredith Duran Page B

before? She did not think so. That, too, seemed proof positive of improvement.
    Less reassuring was how he choked the door frame, his grip tight enough to whiten his knuckles. She had a brief flash of her throat in such a grip; certainly the emotion on his face would very easily translate to that endeavor.
    He prefers bullets, she reminded herself. “I also see”—she paused to take a deep breath, disliking the tremble in her voice—“that St. George’s is planning a commemorative service for Sir Bodley. Did you ever read his memoirs? A very bold explorer—”
    “How do you dare?”
    The deadness in his voice was chilling. But there was no choice for her. She had to get him out of that bedroom. She forced herself to reply brightly. “Was that a rhetorical question, Your Grace? With your tone so level, it is hard to tell—”
    “If I step over this threshold, you will regret it. You do understand that, Miss Johnson?”
    That was the longest threat he’d ever issued, syllabically speaking. It also, somehow, seemed the most convincing of them. Certainly it triggered an ache in her throat, an almost physical memory of Moore’s stranglehold.
    She realized she was crumpling the newsprint, and forced herself to let go. So much for the ironing. Her fingertips were smudged.
    “It is a short distance to this table,” she said encouragingly.
    His reply came very softly: “That should trouble you.”
    She gripped her hands very tightly at her waist. If she bent to him now, handed over the newspapers, then he would withdraw and slam the door. And she might as well book her passage to France, for she would never get a look at the papers he kept there. Not if his improvements did not lead to him leaving his bedroom.
    “If you would . . . if you would only come fetch these papers, you might learn yourself of all the marvelous developments—”
    “ Fetch them?” He made some abortive movement and she clapped her hand over her mouth to contain her squeak. “I am not your damned dog!” he roared.
    She pressed her lips until they hurt. What amortifying sound to have made. He had reduced her to a mouse.
    But what of it? He squirreled papers in his den like a dog with old bones. This was all his fault, really—wasn’t it? If he only left his rooms like any normal man, she would have no need to harass him.
    Yes, there was the dudgeon she required. It straightened her spine. She nudged up her spectacles and narrowed her eyes at him.
    “No, you are not a dog. I have it on very good authority that you are a man, a peer of the realm, a duke no less. But a very curious species of man, I must say—looking so shaggy at present that one could be forgiven for mistaking you for a sheepdog.” She blew out a breath. “How can you see through all that hair?”
    He bared his teeth at her, then retreated out of sight. Panicked, she wracked her brain for some goad to lure him back. But none came to mind that she dared to speak. The point was to lure him out—not to lure him into murdering her.
    He filled the doorway again, a book in his hand—something very old by the crumbling cover. “Do you know,” he said pleasantly, “what distinguishes man from beast?”
    A very good question. “I should think . . . a haircut.”
    He made a contemptuous noise. “The ability to make fire, you tart.”
    “Tart?” Aghast, she crossed her arms. “Termagant, perhaps, but tart, I think not!” And then suddenly it dawned on her what he was threatening. “You can’t mean—”
    “Say good-bye to this book.”
    “You heathen, ” she cried. “You shaggy mongrel!”
    “Mongrel I am not,” he snarled. “And so help me God”—he smirked—“or shall I say, the Devil ”—she gasped—“but if you do not bring me those goddamned newspapers this minute—”
    “Woof!” she cried. “Woof woof, yap away!”
    She clapped a hand over her mouth, horrified. Where had that come from?
    He, too, seemed shocked. He gawped at her for a